


In Every Lifetime, Forever

by griever11



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AU, Baby Mia, Canon, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Romance, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griever11/pseuds/griever11
Summary: “I’ve seen many things, throughout the multiverse and through time. Parallel existences and other dimensions, and in all of them, there’s one thing - one thing that never changes. One thing that holds true in every feasible existence and that is how much we love each other."OR: A really long one-shot about how their love really is just bigger than the freakin' universe.
Relationships: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak
Comments: 40
Kudos: 195





	In Every Lifetime, Forever

_-_ _Wherever you go_ _,_ _whatever happens_ _to_ _you_ _,_ _you_ _'_ _ll never leave me_ _-_

“When you’re an all-knowing, God-like, immortal being, promises like _that_ mean... well, they mean _a lot._ A lot more than if they were made to someone else living a normal existence on the Earthly plane. Because phrases like _wherever you go,_ and _whatever happens to you,_ can literally mean anywhere, and anything. 

“But your mother, Mia, let me tell you something about your mother. She’s magnificent. If I’m a God-like being, she’s _ten times_ that. If I’m all-knowing, she’s _even more_ all-knowing. She... she read this book, you see. The Mon - oh we can’t say his name, your mother hates him - this _annoying man_ gave her a mission; to read the Tome of the Guardians, probably as a distraction, because he didn’t think she’d actually go through with it or _survive_ it. Humans who attempt to read this book have had their brains liquefied, or gone crazy from trying, but not your mother, Mia. Not Felicity.

“Your mother, brilliant, amazing, remarkable in her own right, read this book, and not only did her brains remain intact - you don’t know how monumental that is, but it’s impressive, okay - she actually gained the knowledge of the entire universe from it. The wisdom of the entire _multiverse,_ baby _._ How amazing is that? The M - the annoying man’s plan failed and your mother became the singular, most important person during the Event that Shall Not be Named and you should be so proud.

“I’ve seen many things, throughout the multiverse and through time. Parallel existences and other dimensions, and in all of them, there’s one thing - one thing that _never_ changes. One thing that holds true in every feasible existence and that is how much we love each other.

“And you know what? Your mother already knew that our love could conquer anything, even before I became... me, and before she read the magic book. She made me a promise, she said she’d always find me, that she’d always wait for me, and she said -” 

_\- We are the best parts of each other... and that is bigger than the freakin' universe -_

_“Queen!_ Are you even listening to me?”

He’s snapped out of his stupor by Smoak’s sharp admonishment. It takes him a second to remember where he is. Wow, he must have hit his head pretty hard. Right. 

Caught - they got _caught_ and now they’re tied up together, back to back, wrists and legs bound by zip-ties, and it’s just really _embarrassing_ for a couple of ARGUS agents. 

Oliver grunts, testing the strength of the zip ties - no luck - then lies, “Of course, I’m listening, Smoak.”

“You’re such a liar,” her unimpressed muttering drifts towards him. Her hands fidget behind him, and he can’t see her, but he knows she’s struggling against their restraints as much as he is. “Ugh, I swore last time was the last time, you know? Digg promised. I told him I didn’t want to work with you anymore and I thought he understood.” 

Oliver presses his lips together at his companion’s - no, that’s too generous. Acquaintance? No, not that either. _Whatever._ His whatever’s frustrated whining, and he’s really glad he has his back to her, because otherwise, he knows he’s going to want to strangle her. He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying something he might regret. 

Because, as much as he hates to admit it, that’s how they got into their current predicament in the first place. They’d been ambushed by the security guards of the building they were infiltrating, and he’d acted on pure instinct instead of listening to his sometimes-partner. 

It didn’t occur to him until it was too late that they were vastly outnumbered and two smart-mouthed insults and an admirable attempt at overpowering the gang of criminals later, they were both beaten up, bound and left to suffer alone in a shitty, underground dungeon. 

“But _nooo,”_ she laments. Her voice drops into a deep growl, imitating their handler, Agent Diggle’s voice. “ _'You two work well together, Smoak.’ ,_ ” she scoffs, before continuing in the same voice, “ ' _He’s just a little rough around the edges.’_ ” 

Her voice shifts back into her own. The derision in her voice is very obvious. “Yeah, Digg, rough on the edges and on the insides and on the inside of the insides too. You’re like a big ball of barbed wire, aren’t you, Queen? Spiky and unpleasant.”

Her insult isn’t worth a response because she’s not wrong. Oliver’s prickly at best, with a reputation of not being able to work with others, so her assessment isn’t too far off the mark. 

There’s a weird rustling noise from behind him and then he feels her tugging at their wrist restraints again. Oliver doesn’t get why she’s still struggling. They’re still very much tied up together and helpless in this stupid, dark, unpleasant smelling hellhole. Nothing has changed since the last time she tried pulling against the ties. 

“And let me make it clear, if we went with _my_ plan, we wouldn’t be here, with numb butts, hogtied like we’re lambs about to be impaled on a spit for Sunday roast. Oh, wow, speaking of roast, I’m like, really hungry. I can’t even remember the last time I ate. I had some water before, but that’s different. You must be starving, what with all your muscle-y muscles to sustain. When was the last time _you_ ate?” 

The expectant pause in her babbling indicates that she expects an answer from him because _of course_ she does. If there’s one thing he’s learnt about his pseudo-partner in the handful of times he’s been forced to team up with Smoak, is that she, unique in her penchant for her off-tangent rambling, sometimes assumes that everyone else is equally as ready to share their inner-most thoughts with her. And she gets grumpy when they don’t.

“I had a protein bar a few hours ago,” he grunts, and he’s suddenly aware of his own hunger. Surely backup should be arriving soon, right? They’ve been radio silent for far too long. 

“And you didn’t _share!?”_

Smoak’s indignant squawk is accompanied by a painful yank of his shoulders backwards. He arches his back to compensate for the sudden movement. What the fuck is she doing back there? Is she really upset about _food_ when they’re being held hostage by people who could kill them in like, thirty seconds flat? 

“Smoak, seriously,” Oliver hisses, gritting his teeth against the radiating discomfort in his rotator cuff. “We’re tied together if you’ve forgotten, can you please stop moving?” 

“I can’t believe you didn’t share your protein bar with me,” the hacker sulks. He can picture her pout (pink and full-lipped) as vividly as if she were sitting in front of him, which is a testament to how much she infuriates him and, also, a sure sign that he’s been forced to partner up with her far too many times. 

“We should have been home free by now, and I could be enjoying a Double Double from Big Belly, but of course, here we are, thanks to you. God, I’m so hungry. ” 

“Well, you should have eaten before we got here,” he mutters. 

“And _you_ should have listened to me about the chances of us being ambushed before we got here,” she counters. Her elbows carve into his back, punishing him. “I told you to hang back and let me do my thing, but you had to go all _‘grr_ ’ and barge in without even thinking for a second that someone else might know a thing or two more than you about -” 

“I didn't barge in without thinking,” Oliver interrupts sharply. “I weighed our chances and I took a calculated risk!” 

He really hates it when his expertise is being questioned, but he hates it even more when it’s Smoak doing the questioning (though to be fair, she does have valid reasons most of the time). He’s got five years of experience with ARGUS, for God’s sake. Smoak’s just a goddamn hacker who’s barely out of field-training!

“Yeahh,” Smoak drawls. “And was your calculator _broken?”_

Oliver twists his head around in confusion, catching a brief glimpse of her blonde ponytail before it swishes away out of sight. “What do you mea-” 

“‘Cause from where I’m sitting, quite literally, the risk of getting caught was _calculated_ at a 100% and you still -”

“Okay, please,” Oliver snorts, shaking his head. “You might be a three time mathlete champion, but your math jokes are -”

_“Wait a sec.”_ There she goes again, yanking at their bound hands, making him tilt backwards. _Annoying_ woman. What part of ‘don’t move’ does she not understand? She keeps fidgeting, her bony shoulder blades digging into his sore back. 

“How’d you know I was a mathlete? You’re not supposed to know anything about me. That was the deal with this partnership.” 

Oliver’s mouth snaps shut. He’s thankful he’s not facing her because otherwise, she’d be able to see the way the heat flares up in his cheeks and the way his ears start burning. 

“You told me once,” he mumbles. 

“What? _When?”_ Smoak demands. She shoves at his back impertinently. “I don’t tell you anything! It’s against the rules!” 

“You said you took home a college level mathlete trophy when you were twelve.”

“I...” Smoak pauses, stumped. “When did I say that? I don’t remember.” 

“I don’t know, Smoak!” Oliver snaps, frustrated. Why is this such a big deal? “Between Prague and London? Maybe in Ireland, when we were both drugged by that truth serum? You talk a lot, if you haven’t noticed. You must have slipped.”

Behind him, he feels her fingers twitching, brushing up against his own almost-numb digits. It feels like she’s trying to curl her pinky around his thumb. Her voice loses some of it’s snark and she goes quiet. 

“And you... remembered what I said? Even after they gave us the memory pill so we’d forget everything that wasn’t important to the mission?” 

_Danger,_ his inner voice yells out. _Danger, Oliver._ _Abort!_

His throat closes up. He’s worked so hard at being the best at what he does; the best, most ruthless ARGUS agent, shoving all hints of his humanity into a box he keeps locked up in the bottom of his bleak, soulless, existence, and yet with one innocent remark, Smoak threatens to undo _all_ of it. 

She makes him want to _feel_ again. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m trained for. Any information is good information. Identifiers, like what you told me, are currency in this business, and therefore, important,” he recites mechanically, word for word from their training manual. “Pill or no pill.” 

He feels her go still behind him. Her fingers leave his and he hears the sharp intake of her breath before she murmurs, “Right, _identifiers._ Wow, I’m a terrible agent. I bet I give out a lot of those with my babbling.” 

His heart shrivels up inside him, which is insane because for a long time, he’s convinced himself he no longer had one. But now, hearing the tinge of sadness interlaced through her words, knowing _he’s_ the reason that she sounds so sad makes him want to throw up. So, of course, he doubles down on being unaffected and emotionless.

“I mean,” Oliver croaks. He feels his soul cracking in two the way his voice does. “It _is_ unprofessional, Smoak.” 

See? 

This is why he needs to spend less time with her. Before Smoak, this conversation would have rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. Now, it’s like every time they’re thrown together, he loses a little bit of his self-control; like a figment of his old self, a remnant of who he used to be, tries to break through to the surface. He feels her chip away at his hard-earned accomplishments and the stoic exterior he’s carefully cultivated over the years and he _hates_ that she has the ability to do so.

“Well, I’ll just have to stop talking to you, I guess.” Her voice is as emotionless and mechanical is as his.

“Good thing Digg said that this is absolutely the last time I have to work with you. You’ll be rid of me soon enough.” 

Oh no, _wait._ That’s not what he wanted. They work really well together, current situation notwithstanding. Oliver doesn’t panic, not anymore, but this is the closest that he’ll ever get to admitting that he’s panicking. He twists his body around, painfully, angling his head so he catches the edge of her profile, dimly lit by the single bulb dangling above them. 

“Smoak, I didn’t mean -” 

But he never gets to tell her what he means. 

A chorus of loud shouting, followed by a spray of dust and debris falling from above, interrupts him. The loud thudding of heavy footfalls indicate that something is going down with their captors upstairs and Oliver feels the tension in his bones ease up a little. 

Their backup is here. 

Sure enough, a minute later, the door that had remained solidly shut bursts open, splintering apart at the hinges. 

It’s all over after that. 

Their zip ties are cut, much to the relief of his cramped muscles and blood circulation. The standard issue memory pill is shoved into their hands, and amidst the chaos that ensues, Smoak launches into a one long, continuous tirade about how their mission had gone belly up. He notices she dodges and weaves around the fact that it was really, all _his_ fault, and instead heavily implies that their capture was due to pure bad timing. 

The team makes sure their captors are subdued and the necessary clean-up procedures are taken care of, but before Oliver gets a chance to catch up with Smoak, he gets distracted by the rescue team’s leader asking for a quick debrief. 

ARGUS doesn’t take too kindly to failed missions, and Smoak’s white lie has saved his hide. He doesn’t get reprimanded for his impulsiveness, for once, and when he’s done, he rushes out in search of her so that he can thank her for covering for him. 

And maybe, just maybe, he thinks as he wanders out of the building and searches for any sign of her bright blonde ponytail, he also wants to make sure that she’s okay. Those angry, red marks around her wrists from being tied up looked nasty. Plus, if _his_ arms are sore and cramping up, hers must be as well. 

Unfortunately for him though, after a fruitless five minutes of looking for her, he concludes that she must have taken the first convoy back to base. She’s nowhere to be found.

The memory pill he’s clutching in his palm burns a bitter hole through his hand. He knows he has to take it, it’s protocol. As always, there’s the looming cloud of fear and doubt about what he will and will not remember about this mission. This time though, there’s also a heavy, twisty feeling in the pit in his stomach, a churning deep in his soul that belies a sort of finality about _everything._

She said that this was going to be her final mission with him. That means she’s probably fulfilled her contract with ARGUS, and - the gaping hole in his soul widens a little - that he won’t be seeing her again. Ever. 

He thinks of the bits and pieces that he’s retained about her over time. She grew up in Vegas. Mathlete. Allergic to peanuts and has a fear of heights. Partial to Star Trek, but would lay down her life if anyone disparaged Star Wars in front of her. Kangaroos freak her out. She doesn’t know why. 

His heart stutters. 

It goes against every ounce of his training, but he honestly doesn’t want to forget any part of her, even if it means he’ll have to live with the looping sadness of the last thing she said to him replaying in his head, telling him over and over that he’ll be ‘ _rid of her soon enough’._

Swallowing hard, with Smoak’s face flitting in and out of his mind’s eye, Oliver slowly unfurls his fingers and lets the small, red pill fall to the ground before stomping on it, burying it in the dirt.

_\- I love you more than a human being should love another human being -_

Dead, fallen leaves crunch beneath Felicity’s Converses, a delicious crackle of crinkling and snapping in the dirt that, aptly, she thinks, signifies the retiring of all things old and the birth of all things new.

She’s only been on campus for half an hour, hanging at the back of the group of first years on the customary welcome to MIT tour, and she’s already in love. The campus is awash in a lovely golden-orange hue, the rays from the setting sun glancing over fallen leaves from the abundance of trees and shrubbery around her. 

Vegas isn’t very green, not where she grew up anyway, so having everything bathed in fall colours; brown, yellow, orange - it’s all so exciting for her. 

Being accepted into MIT’s accelerated double masters program at the tender age of 17 is even _more_ exciting, and Felicity’s practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. She imagines herself mingling with like-minded individuals; brilliant, young, intelligent students who one day will change the world for the better. She imagines her classes being challenging, her professors engaging, and her experience to be life-changing. 

The girl leading the tour pauses for a second, allowing stragglers to catch up. Felicity uses the time to catalogue the sea of faces around her. Most of them would be her course mates, and some maybe future best friends, and her heart swells with warmth and hopefulness. 

It feels like she’s going to have the best first day on campus.

This is going to be different from high school, she tells herself. Everyone here will understand her, no one’s going to call her a good-two-shoes nerd, and best of all, no one knows her. She gets a fresh start, a new lease on life and - 

Someone slams into her back, sending her flying through the air. She lands painfully, knees colliding hard against the brick path and her palms catch the brunt of the fall. 

The searing pain from her palms being scraped raw makes tears well up in her eyes. Her glasses have also been knocked askew, and she fixes it, flinching as bits and pieces of gravel fall from her hands.

When her vision clears, she realises with a jolt of horror that everyone’s staring at her. 

_Everyone._

“Oh, shit, are you okay? I’m _so_ , so sorry!” 

Before the embarrassment of being knocked over is able to register properly, someone picks her up - _literally_ picks her up, large hands under her armpits and all - and sets her on her feet. Befuddled and still a little dazed from her fall, Felicity allows this person to manhandle her, blinking dumbly at the growing group of murmuring students staring straight at her. Some even have their phones out. 

“Ah, you’re bleeding, that’s not go- hey, hey, are you with me?” 

“Huh?” 

She tears her gaze from the crowd and refocuses on the hand waving in front of her face. A boy, slightly older if she had to guess, stands in front of her, worry lines marring his very nice looking face. 

_Seriously_ nice looking face.

“We were just... goofing around with the football and I didn’t see you, I’m so sorry,” the boy repeats, gesturing wildly to a football lying on the ground next to them. “I didn’t mean to run into you, I swear.” 

The brain fog clears, and she realises that the boy must have collided into her trying to catch it or something. Sport has never been her cup of tea, but now she can add this incident to her list of reasons why she dislikes it. 

“It’s fine,” she mumbles. The shock from the collision is slowly wearing off and she feels the pain from her injuries rippling over her flesh. She whimpers involuntarily, ducking her head and pressing her lips together tightly. 

She’s not going to cry. 

Not in front of fifty potential classmates, and not when she was just thinking about making good impressions and having a new start. She can still hear the whispers around her, and her cheeks heat up. The mortification - _everyone_ saw her fall over! - is overwhelmingly worse than the pain right at this moment, and god, can the ground just open up and swallow her whole now? 

“Um, I can take you to the nurse,” the boy offers, scratching the back of his head, a little unsure. “Those look nasty. I’ll pay for a doctor too, if you need to see one.” 

“I can take care of myself,” Felicity snaps. The tour leader is making her way towards Felicity, and she really doesn’t need more attention on her right now. Felicity winces as she brushes the dirt and gravel off her clothes. The boy makes another move to help her but Felicity shrugs him off and swallows thickly. 

She ignores the flash of irritation that surges through her when the boy attempts to speak again, and she holds up her hand. “I’m fine, really,” she insists.

“But-”

“No, please just leave me alone, okay?” she cuts him off. The boy’s mouth snaps shut in surprise. “Watch where you’re going next time,” she tells him sternly before turning her back on the group and limping all the way back to her dorm. 

So much for a great first day.

* * *

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee

Where’s the - oh, _there._

Felicity meanders around the shelves, dodging the errant student in her path as she makes a beeline to the little coffee machine in the corner of MIT’s quiet study room. She’s going on hour 26 of being awake, and since her professor is an asshole who won’t approve her request for an extension, she has to finish her project tonight if she wants to make it to the competition tomorrow.

“Oh, sweet nectar of life,” she croons under her breath as she presses her button for an espresso shot. She hesitates for a second before pressing it again. Two shots should do it. 

“That’s a lot of caffeine for, y’know, this time of the night.” 

Without needing to turn around, she knows who the voice belongs to. 

“I don’t remember asking you for your opinion,” Felicity mutters. 

“You never do, and it hurts, Felicity. It’s like you don’t think I’m capable of independent thought.” 

She can smell him, which means he is, once again, standing _far_ too close to her. Whirling around on the balls of her feet, she comes face to face with the bane of her existence; the boy who won’t leave her alone, like a pesky fly that refuses to go away no matter how much she swats at it. 

At least he’s a fly that smells nice, her brain concedes. Peppermint and citrus today. Must be _date night._

So then, why is he _here?_

“Oliver.” She says his name slowly, shaking off her unhelpful mental commentary. She allows a little bit of irritation drip into her words. “I’m surprised you even know this study room exists.” 

Oliver smirks at her, taking the insult in his stride. They’ve known each other for close to a whole school year now, and someone on the outside looking in might assume they hated each other from the way they trade barbs with one another daily, they both know her words have no bite to them. 

Mostly.

“I call it my Felicity radar. I know exactly where you are at all times, so of course I know where this study room is. You’re in here all the time.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “You call it your Felicity-radar, I call it Felicity-stalking.”

Ever since he bowled her over on Orientation Day, Felicity’s been unable to shake his presence from her life. At first, she attributed his persistence to his guilt over knocking her flat on her face, and for a while, she appreciated that he was so eager to make sure she was okay. But when weeks passed and he was _still_ hanging around, eventually Felicity stopped wondering what he was doing and just let him 

Ironically, despite her initial misgivings about him and being responsible for what is her most embarrassing moment on campus and the scar on her knee, Oliver had become her first (and, she admits begrudgingly, closest) friend at MIT.

Even if he _is_ the most annoying guy she’s ever known in her entire life. 

“Sure, whatever works for you.” Oliver shrugs easily. He takes the coffee mug from her hand, drops in a cube of sugar and a dash of creamer the way she likes it before handing it back. He takes a step back to let her pass. “So. What are we studying today?” 

_“I_ am finishing up my project, then prepping for the mathlete finals tomorrow. You - you are going to leave me alone. There is no _we.”_

“Aw, c’mon. I’m already here! I can be useful and hold your flash cards or something.” 

This boy, arguably one of the most eligible guys on campus, wants to hold flash cards for her on a Friday night? Highly unlikely, and _very_ suspicious.

“What’s the bet?” Felicity asks, scowling. She goes back to her table, pulls out her chair and slumps down into it, narrowing her eyes at Oliver, who’s still standing on the other side of the desk. 

“Huh?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“How much are you going to win if you stay here with me?” Felicity rolls her eyes. “I’ll tell Tommy you were here all night if you have somewhere else to be, but only if you split your winnings with me 50/50.” 

Oliver frowns at her, the furrowing of his brow adding to the legitimacy of his confusion. He places both his hands on the table and leans forward. It makes his forearms flex, accentuating the cut of his muscles and Felicity can’t help but be drawn to the sight. He might be annoying as hell, but damn does he have amazing muscles. 

_So_ amazing. One time, he yawned so hard that the stretch of his arms over his head pulled his shirt upwards, revealing abs that looked like they were carved from stone. Felicity still turns red when she thinks about it. 

“There’s no bet,” Oliver insists. “You said your professor wouldn’t give you an extension, and then you said you couldn’t bail on the competition either, so I thought I’d... I don’t know, help, or something.”

“Seriously?” She blinks at him in disbelief.

Oliver nods. He pulls up another chair, then settles in opposite her. He drags one of her notebooks towards him, flips it open, and then sends her a saucy wink. “I know mathlete stuff. I watched Mean Girls. The limit doesn’t exist.” 

A bark of laughter bursts from between her lips unexpectedly, earning the two of them some dirty looks from the other students in the area. Oliver grins, quite pleased with himself, and it makes Felicity melt a little. 

Her resolve cracks. 

“If you sit there quietly while I finish referencing this project, you can quiz me after,” she compromises. “Operative word, _quietly,_ if that’s even possible for you.” 

Fifteen minutes pass by in blissful silence. Oliver flips through her notebook, occasionally scribbling things in the margin. She’s one hundred percent sure he’s just drawing dicks and other lewd images in them instead of actually making notations - but otherwise allows her the pleasure of wrapping up her work peacefully. 

Until Oliver suddenly asks, “Can I come to the competition tomorrow?” 

Ah, as they say, all good things come to an end. 

To anyone else, it would have been a normal, casual, question, but Felicity notices the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s avoiding her gaze, adamantly keeping his head down as he continues scribbling in her notebook. 

“The Mathlete Championship? _That_ competition?” she double checks. It’s a strange request because not only is it one of her more nerdy extracurricular activities, but also because Oliver has never once asked to come to any of them. 

Come to think of it, he’s never offered to help her prep for them either so tonight is a night of firsts, it seems. 

“Yes, Felicity,” Oliver replies tersely. He puts the pen down and closes the notebook, finally looking up at her. “That one.” 

“So-rry,” Felicity mutters. “I only ask because you’ve never wanted to come before. You know it’s not like a football game, right? It’s literally two teams answering really hard math questions. There’s no alcohol and we don’t run around with our shirts off when we get a correct answer.” 

Felicity giggles at the image that plays in her head, of her teammates running around the hall the way Tommy and Oliver do when they win their football games. 

“It’s not _that_ funny,” Oliver grouses, mistaking her laughter for one directed at him. He folds his arms over the desk and pins her with an accusatory stare. “Why can’t I be there to support you? It’s the final round.” 

“I’m not saying you can’t, Oliver. You’ve never wanted to before, so you can’t blame me for thinking this is a little odd.” She pinches her forefinger and her thumb together for emphasis. “Like, a tiny bit, odd.” 

“I just... want to be there for you when you win. Why is that so hard for you to believe?” 

Okay, he’s sulking. _Oliver_ is sulking, like he’s disappointed that she’s not taking him seriously. He’s a generally laid back guy; Felicity has never seen him stress out over anything, except possibly double-booking himself on dates, so him being this cagey and fidgety is baffling. 

Something is amiss here, and clearly requires her full attention. She makes sure her work is saved, then carefully shuts her laptop. 

_“If_ we win,” she corrects. “The Harvard team is crazy good, and we-” 

“You’re going to win,” Oliver cuts in. He leans forward. “You’re the smartest person on campus. In Boston. On the whole planet. And the guys on your team aren’t half bad.” 

Felicity rolls her eyes. Despite being used to his exaggerated flattery, she’s unable to ignore the warm, tingly feeling spreading through her, and the swirling in her stomach. It happens without fail every time Oliver pays her a compliment and he does it a lot. He’s never been shy about admiring her intelligence - in fact, it’s what set him apart from a lot of his peers and made him tolerable in the early days of their friendship. 

Where other students might find her intimidating, Oliver has always appreciated her smarts, and it’s a refreshing change from her younger years. She’ll never admit it to his face, but it’s one of the many things she actually likes about him. 

“So, like I said, you’re going to win,” Oliver continues, oblivious to Felicity’s wandering thoughts. She focuses back on him, only to be surprised that his trademark smirk lacks it’s usual cockiness. On the surface he seems fine, but his fingers are twitching, and his feet - she can’t see them, but from the way the table is subtly shaking, she suspects they’re bouncing nervously under the desk. 

“And when you do win, do you think you’d... ah. Do you want -,” Oliver pauses. He licks his lips, then exhales. He flicks his eyes up at hers, then back down to his still-twitching fingers. What is his deal?

Felicity sighs heavily. She doesn’t have time for this. “Oliver, just spit it out.” 

“- do you want to celebrate over dinner, maybe?” 

_Oh._ Jeez, is that all? 

Felicity beams at him. “Of course! _If_ we win, that is. The team would love it. Listen, Barry thinks you’re like the ‘God of All Men’, or something, so he’ll be excited. And it’ll be nice for you to hang out with some of my friends, for once. Sometimes, I think they think you’re a figment of my -”

“Felicity.” He says her name a little irritably, stopping her mid-ramble. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I meant dinner with just the _two of us.”_

The frown on Felicity’s face deepens. “What? That’s not really fair to the team though. If we win, it would be a team effort, and celebrating with _just_ me isn’t quite in the team spirit of it all -”

“Felicity, you’re not -” 

“- and, okay, if you’re worried about our allergies and stuff, it’s totally fine. We could go for pizza or something, and that way we can cater to everyone’s requirements. We do it all the -” 

“But I don’t _want_ to have dinner with your team!” Oliver snaps loudly, half-growling at her. He curls his fingers into fists. He must notice the shock on Felicity’s face at his outburst, because he shakes his head quickly and sighs apologetically. 

He rubs his hands over his face, groaning under his breath, barely audible, but loud enough to convey his frustration. He forces out through his teeth, “I want to have dinner with just _you.”_

Felicity wrinkles her nose and purses her lips. “Then how is it fair to celebrate _the team’s_ win if it’s not _with_ -” 

“Oh, for God’s _sake,_ Smoak!” 

The interruption of a third person’s voice startles Felicity into silence. She whips her head around to find John Diggle, a fellow classmate in her English Lit elective, and Oliver’s teammate on the football team, sending a murderous glare her way from the table next to hers.

_“What?”_ Felicity whispers at him, conscious that more people in the room are turning their heads to glare at them. 

“Are you serious?” John questions, throwing his hands up and rolling his eyes. “Smoak, the guy _asking you out.”_

Felicity snorts. “Ha ha, very funny. You know what, John, mind your own busin-” 

“I had it _handled,_ Digg,” Oliver hisses venomously, speaking over her and lobbing a scrunched up ball of paper at him.

“Oh yeah? Cause from where I’m sitting, you were not handling _anything_ and your date was about to turn into a _group_ date with the whole team. You sure you don’t need some help, Casanova?” 

“Shut up, John. I don’t need your help.”

The hushed whispers continue between the other two, but it goes in one ear and out her other. She hears them, but her brain is still processing the fact that Oliver hadn’t denied that he was asking her out. 

John’s mistaken. Surely, Oliver wasn’t asking her out.

_Was he?_

“- and this is a silent study area, so maybe just put him out of his misery and say yes to the date, and we can all go back to studying, hey?” 

Felicity realises with a start that John is directing this part of the conversation to her. Her head swivels around to look at Oliver. His cheeks are red, and he’s staring expectantly at her, as if - 

“Were you actually asking me out on a date?” Felicity blurts out. 

From the next table, she hears John let out a very loud, exaggerated sigh. 

“I was trying to,” Oliver mumbles. He turns a darker shade of red. Then his voice drops into a low murmur. “Have been trying for six months, actually.” 

People talk about having ‘record-scratching’ moments - this is hers. The world freezes for a brief second, and then there’s a thundering, rushing noise in her ears that drowns out all the other noise around her. 

_Six_ months? 

Oliver stands up slowly and she watches him, unblinking, slack-jawed and with her brain still catching up and _processing._ He moves to sit in the chair next to hers, turning his back to a still-smirking John, and faces her. 

“Felicity. I like you.” He says it so matter-of-factly, so clearly, that he leaves very little room for doubt in his statement. 

Except of course, for the teeny-tiny fact that he’s so way out of her league. It’s laughable that he really, actually wants to date her. He’s hot. Stupidly hot. Intelligent, athletic, charming, and has a heart of gold under his brash, spoilt-boy exterior. 

And she’s just Felicity. 

“I don’t spend three weekends in a row binge-watching Doctor Who with _just_ anyone, you know?” he tells her quietly, like he can read her mind. “Or put myself through twenty hours of Harry Potter in one sitting.” 

“I thought you were hungover all those times,” Felicity whispers, wide-eyed in shock. The implication of what he’s saying is slowly dawning on her. “You _said_ you were, and I only made you watch them to punish you for barging into my room at ungodly hours of the night.” 

Oliver laughs. “Then it backfired, because as it turns out, spending time with you will never be a punishment. And while we’re talking about punishments, that cooking class that I took with you? It wasn’t because I wanted to learn how to cook,” he continues while Felicity gapes at him. “I’m actually a pretty good cook already.” 

“I know, your souffle was amazing,” Felicity recalls dreamily. It makes sense - no amatuer first-timer could have pulled that desert off so perfectly. She can still taste the soft, fluffy dessert on her tongue. Heaven. 

“Too bad I nearly set the kitchen on fire and got us kicked out of that class before we got to the ice cream cakes.” She shakes her head. “Wait, Oliver. If you already knew how to cook, then why -” 

“Because I wanted to spend time with you,” he repeats pointedly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Over a sheepish smile, he admits, “And again, because I like you. A lot.” 

Her eyes narrow with skepticism. It’s not that she thinks he’s lying, exactly, but it’s a little hard to believe that he’s wanted to date her _for six months,_ when he’s notoriously known as a serial dater and has the entire campus worth of women willing to fall over their feet for him. If she takes his word for it, it means he’s wanted to date her for almost as long as she’s been harbouring a very secret, yet all-consuming, crush on him. 

It’s absurd. 

“You’ve dated like seven girls since you’ve known me,” Felicity points out, because she’s her own worst enemy, apparently. She doesn’t add that she remembers every single one of them. Tall and pretty and elegant, and definitely not constantly cramming for assessments or prepping for mathlete competitions.

“Only because I didn’t think you’d give me the time of day.” 

_“What?!"_ Felicity exclaims, the high pitch of her surprise echoing around them. 

The other students in the room start muttering loudly at the disturbance, not appreciating at all that Felicity’s having a bit of a crisis in her hands right now. 

Oliver ignores their mutinous glares. He inches forward in his seat so that his body blocks her view of everyone else in the room. He ducks his head and plays with a loose thread in the seam of his jeans. He keeps his voice low. 

“Felicity, you’re smart and funny. You’re kind, generous, and you don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. Though sometimes I am. You’re beautiful, even when you’re in your coding-spirals and haven’t brushed your hair in days.”

“Hey!” 

“I know you think I’m childish and immature. I know I get on your nerves a lot, and I don’t know what else I can say to convince you but I just... I’ve liked you for so long and I wanted to um, shoot my shot, as they say. That’s all.”

His head stays bent low, staring at his knees as he speaks. “And if you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay. I’m happy enough being friends with you. I promise. I won’t make it weird. We can still celebrate with the rest of your team when you win.” 

She’s dreaming. Surely. Oliver Queen asked her out on a date. Kind of. But then he also sort of just gave her an out. Felicity reaches for him, gently tipping his head back so she can look him in the eyes.

“You want to take me out to dinner.” 

He blinks at her, then nods quickly. His voice is filled with conviction. “Yes.” 

“Like on a date.” 

“Not _like_ a date. _Exactly_ a date.” 

The swirling in her stomach morphs into a full-blown whirlpool. She catalogues the way he’s smiling at her, all tentative and hopeful. His eyes shine with boyish delight, and even though it’s late, very late, in the night and she still has so much work to do, a renewed surge of energy courses through her veins. 

Oliver must see the change in her demeanor, because he seeks out her hands with his and starts playing with her fingers. He sucks in a breath. “So...?” 

His hands are warm around hers. As warm as the undercurrent of familiar comfort that‘s slowly wrapping itself around her. Unbidden, a shy smile stretches over her lips, matching the slow spread of heat in her cheeks. She’s a little breathless, and a lot overwhelmed. How did she go from being stressed out over her schoolwork, to scoring a date with the friend she’s denied having the biggest crush on for the longest time? 

“Definitely didn’t think this is how my night was gonna go,” she murmurs, more to herself than anything. A wrinkle appears between Oliver’s brows, doubt filtering through the otherwise still-hopeful look he’s fixing intently on her. 

“Fe-li-ci-ty,” he drags out, begging. “Come on...” 

She holds his gaze for a few more seconds, drawing out the suspense just to aggravate him since that will never _not_ be fun. When the vein in Oliver’s forehead looks like it’s about to burst, she finally takes pity on him. 

She tugs on his hand, still laced together with hers, and engulfs him into a tight hug. It’s awkward because of the way they’re sitting, and because he’s so much bigger than she is, but it’s also - perfect. 

Oliver lets out an undignified squeak of surprise, but then buries his nose in her hair and she feels him breathe in deeply. His chest expands with a long pull of air, and he mumbles something she can’t quite decipher. The tension leaves his body and he melts into her bonelessly, his own hands coming up to hold her against him. 

“Is this a yes?” he whispers. 

Felicity pulls back. She lifts an eyebrow, then shrugs. “You said you’d only take me to dinner if we won, and we haven’t yet, so -”

“Felicity!” Oliver lets out a bark of incredulous laughter. 

“- so how about you get on with quizzing me and make sure we _definitely_ win?” She winks, then pops her laptop’s lid open before shoving it towards him. “Start reading, Romeo.” 

_\- People change, Felicity. It means we're growing. It means we're evolving, except for one thing, one thing that will not change... is how I feel about you -_

\--

**#23: Get the Perfect Vanilla Butter Cake Every Time - A foolproof OQ recipe**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_ ** at 10.31pm: 

This is such a misleading recipe, it’s definitely not foolproof and my butter cake was definitely not perfect. 3/10. And you only got 3 because at least the batter tasted good. 

> **_OQ_** replied at 11.45pm:
> 
> I’m really sorry you had trouble with this recipe. Can you please tell me what you’ve done so I can potentially see how I can help you if you decide to attempt this again? 
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 12.15am:
> 
> I did exactly everything the recipe asked me to do! Except I was running late, so I couldn’t leave the cake in the oven for as long as you said to, but I upped the temperature to compensate for the time, and then put it in the fridge after I took it out so that it cooled down faster. But the cake was ruined anyway. I’m good at math. So I know my math works, so it was definitely your recipe that was wrong. 
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 12.20am: 
> 
> Yeah, I’ll give you the math, but that’s not how _cakes_ work. 
> 
> **You’veBeenSmoaked** replied at 12.23am:
> 
> So make cakes that work then. I changed my mind. This recipe is now a solid 2/10.

\--

**#26: A Christmas Miracle! The best Christmas turkey you’ve ever tasted - an easy OQ recipe**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** at 1:32pm: 

The only thing that’s miraculous about this recipe is that I believed you when you said it would be easy.

> **_OQ_** replied at 1:55pm:
> 
> Hello, again! Merry Christmas! What sort of mathematical formula did you use on my recipe this time to warrant this comment? It really should have been fairly easy, even for amatuer cooks.
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 2:15pm: 
> 
> I’ll admit that I didn’t make the turkey but I needed to make stuffing, so I used that bit of your recipe. Except the stuffing tasted bleh. I don’t usually celebrate Christmas (Jewish!), so I wasn’t expecting anything great, but once more, I was tricked by you saying this would be easy. 1/10 would not recommend it. Not the best tasting, and definitely not easy.
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 2:30pm:
> 
> The stuffing portion of the recipe consists of five ingredients.
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 2:34pm: 
> 
> Which is probably why it tasted horrible. 
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 3:10pm:
> 
> Are you sure you followed the very simple THREE steps in the recipe?
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 3:13pm:
> 
> Well, I didn’t make the turkey, so I didn’t have ‘rendered fat’, whatever that is. I used some old turkey ham I had left in the fridge, and the fat from that, but otherwise, YES, MR OQ. Oh, I also didn’t know what ‘cumin’ was so I left that out. Do I look like someone who has ‘cumin’ in her home?
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 3:20pm:
> 
> Based on your avatar, you look like you’re a very fancy techy-screwdriver and I’ll happily admit that I don’t know what screwdrivers usually have in their homes. 
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 3:22pm:
> 
> Not funny.

\--

**#27: Sufganiyot: For my Jewish fans - a OQ first!**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** at 8:10am:

Well, this is nice.

> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 8:12am: 
> 
> Not that I’m saying I’m a fan, or anything.
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 8:15am: 
> 
> Glad to see you’re no longer a screwdriver. I like your glasses. Does ‘nice’ that mean this recipe was a success? I await your rating! I’m excited to find out if this lives up to the real thing. Good morning, by the way. You caught this one early. 
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 8:20am: 
> 
> Slow day at the office. Kinda gets like that when you’re the only one not taking Christmas off. And no, not a success - or a failure! I didn’t attempt to make these. I merely thought it was a nice gesture to include a Jewish dessert for the holidays, that’s all. That being said, it’ll probably still be a 3/10. Based on past experience, of course.
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 8:28am:
> 
> That’s a little uncalled for, considering your past failures have been, arguably, your fault more than anything. 
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 9:10am:
> 
> If anyone’s at fault, it’s you for misrepresentation and misleading the public! You’re the one out here with a website called _‘OQ’s Easy Recipes for Everyone’_ when they’re clearly NOT easy for everyone. 
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 9:12am: 
> 
> I believe you’re the only one they’re not easy for. 
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 9:45am: 
> 
> And I’m a part of everyone, so therefore my point still stands.
> 
> **_Speedy_** replied at 10:31am:
> 
> Would you recommend microwaved popcorn or stovetop popcorn to best enjoy this intriguing exchange?
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 10:35am: 
> 
> Microwaved is fine. Although, _@You’veBeenSmoaked_ will most likely mess that up too. 

\--

**_Hi all! Apologies for the brief downtime the website suffered this week. Someone hacked the site and we had to take it down to fix the problem. But the good news is that we’re back now, with beefed up security features. Thank you for understanding!_ **

**_-OQ_ **

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_ **at 11:45pm:

L O L

\--

**#31: A meal so easy even my #1 fan You’veBeenSmoaked can’t screw up!**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_ ** at 1:45am: 

INSTANT RAMEN?! SItghdfasas NUMBER ONE FAN? I can’t believe you.

> **_OQ_** replied at 1:48am:
> 
> Did you screw it up? :)
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 2:10am: 
> 
> Don’t smiley-face me. Even I can’t screw up boiling water, smarta** 
> 
> **_You’vebeenSmoaked_** replied at 2:11am:
> 
> Wow, profanity filters, huh? You really did beef up your security. That hack last week must have really done a number on you. 
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 2:20am: 
> 
> I’m actually taking it as a sign that my website is getting a lot of good web traffic and gaining momentum. After all, why would someone go through all the trouble to hack my site if it wasn’t worth something on the internet?
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** repllied at 2:27am:
> 
> IT’S NOT WORTH ANYTHING ALL YOUR RECIPES ARE D U M B
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 2:29am:
> 
> ... what are you doing awake at this hour anyway?
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 2:32am:
> 
> Could ask you the same question. 
> 
> **You’veBeenSmoaked** replied at 2:43am
> 
> Is the ramen meant to stick to the bottom of the pot? Wtf 1/10 recipe.

User **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** has been TempBanned for 12 hours with the message: No. Goodnight.

\--

**#35: [VIDEO] Chicken Cordon Bleu: an OQ step-by-step video**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_ ** at 4:17pm:

Um wow.

> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 4:19pm:
> 
> 10/10 and I’m not talking about the chicken.
> 
> **_Speedy_** replied at 5:15pm:
> 
> @OQ did you see this

Comment from **_CHolt1337_ ** at 5:40pm:

Thank you for this. Going to give it a go for my anniversary dinner! 

> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 5:45pm:
> 
> Oh so you only visit this site when there’s a *video* of him. 
> 
> **_CHolt1337_** replied at 5:47pm:
> 
> You wouldn’t stop talking about his ‘pretty face’, I couldn’t not see this video for myself. Fwiw, you’re right, he is really hunky. 
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 5:50pm:
> 
> Hello @CHolt1337! Thank you for your lovely comment. I hope you have a great anniversary! Do you know You’veBeenSmoaked? May I please send you a private message? 

\--

**#43: Souffles - a surefire way to romance your Valentine**

\--

Comment from **_Speedy_ **at 3:15pm

Since when do you have a Valentine to romance? 

> **_CHolt1337_** replied at 4:20pm: 
> 
> Since last week, around lunchtime. After I told him where she works. 
> 
> **_Speedy_** replied at 4:25pm:
> 
> WTF WHAT 
> 
> **_Speedy_** replied at 4:27pm:
> 
> WHY AM I FINDING THIS OUT FROM MY BROTHER’S DUMBASS SITE’S COMMENT SECTION

\--

**#46: Breakfast omelettes - an OQ specialty**

\--

Comment from **_You’veBeenSmoaked_ **at 9:30am: 

15/10

> **_Speedy_** replied at 9:32am:
> 
> High praise coming from you. Did you manage not to mess this one up or is it because you... HAD IT IN PERSON
> 
> **_You’veBeenSmoaked_** replied at 9:42am:
> 
> The second one. Bye! Taste-testing pancakes now. xoxoxoxox

\--

**#60: [VIDEO] Special Edition Vanilla Butter Cake: OQ has a guest chef!**

\--

Comment from **_Speedy_ **at 1:52pm:

AWWWw

Comment from **_CHolt1337_ **at 1:55pm: 

IS THAT A RING

> **_CHolt1337_** replied at 1:56pm:
> 
> IN THE CAKE
> 
> **_OQ_** replied at 2:15pm:
> 
> And now it’s a ring on her finger :) 

_\- We found ourselves_ _in each other -_

The solid platinum band around Oliver’s finger glints under the pale moonlight filtering through the clouds in the sky. It feels like both yesterday _and_ forever ago that Felicity slipped it on for him, shy and tentative, her much colder, smaller digits gliding over his skin. He twists the ring once, a habit he’s picked up on in recent times in an attempt to stay close to his wife.

“Glad it fits,” she had murmured back then. “I had to guesstimate your finger size, and as well acquainted as I am with your fingers -” She winks at him playfully, fully intending the double entendre this time. “- sizing it for a ring is a whole different ball game, you know?” 

They’d exchanged their rings on the first night they got back to Star City after the spontaneous wedding in Central City. It had been quiet and low-key, just the two of them and William in Oliver’s new loft, still basking in newlywed afterglow and pure happiness. They were _married._ It took them six years of bad timing and countless tragedies but they managed to find their way back to each other. 

Now, a stint in prison, an apocalyptic-almost-end-of-the-world scenario and one or two extra God-like abilities later, the afterglow has diminished a little, but Oliver can one hundred percent, with absolute certainty, attest to the fact that he’s _still_ happy. Deliriously so. 

His daughter, snug in her favourite (his, too) baby sling strapped to his chest, chatters in indecipherable baby speak cheerfully as if she can read his mind. Mia’s usually in bed by now, but he brought her out tonight because Felicity and William are running some sort of stress test on her latest tech creation that necessitated her to crank up the thermostat in their little cabin and the air is a lot cooler outdoors. 

It means that Mia’s a bundle of squirming excitement, aware of the rare opportunity of being out past bedtime, and she stares, wide-eyed with wonder, at the vast open sky above them. 

“Ooh, dada!” She waves a finger at the pinpricks of stars dotting the otherwise inky darkness of the night.

“Yeah, baby. Look at all that. The entire universe, stretched out above you. Your mom can tell you so much more about stars and _wars_ \- I think there are nine of them now - and galaxies and space, but for now, how about we just... enjoy how quiet it is out here, huh? Doesn’t happen often for us.”

Mia kicks her pudgy baby legs outwards and squeals, before tipping her head back to thump against his chest. 

“Felicity’s going to kill me for keeping you up so late. But you know what? Worth it, right?” Oliver murmurs over Mia’s head, before ducking down to kiss the top of her head. She smells so good, a combination of her natural baby scent and the lotion Felicity insists on slathering over her after bath time. The tuft of downy hair tickles his chin and he sighs contentedly. 

This. 

_This_ is everything he’s ever wanted. 

For him and Felicity to be left alone, for his little family to grow and thrive without the constant scrutiny of a city that could never decide if they loved him or hated him. Moving to Bloomfield has been the best decision they’ve ever made, besides of course, getting married to each other. 

“Dadadadada,” Mia babbles loudly, like she knows Oliver’s attention is drifting away from her. “Da dada storrrr,” she admonishes, then kicks her legs out again. Her head twists to the side, and her cheeks smush against his chest as she tries to look up at him. 

“Story dada?” 

“Okay, okay, baby,” Oliver huffs, laughing gently. He unhooks the baby sling from around his neck and lifts Mia out of it. Her childish cackles ring out in the night as Oliver raises her up in the sky, twirling her around in the air in her favourite game of ‘Superman’. 

He walks over to the swing he built for Felicity in her final trimester of her pregnancy, sitting down and placing Mia on his lap. It sways for second as he settles in, creaking with age, but it holds. Oliver sets Mia down so they're facing each other. He bounces her on his knees a few times, eliciting another giggle from her before he stops and brushes a kiss along her forehead. 

Damn, this baby smell is going to be the end of him. 

When he pulls back, her huge, curious eyes stare at him, intelligence reflecting back in her bright blue irises. 

“You want a story?” he asks.

“Ya dada!” Mia throws both fists up in agreement. 

It’s his favourite pastime these days, regaling his children with tales of the lives he’s lived. He may not be a genius inventor like his wife, nor is he a masked crusader anymore, but he’s still, albeit reluctantly, the Spectre (and oh, does he hates the name), which means he has years, and years, and not to mention, a few million parallel dimensions, worth of stories to tell his kids. 

“What’ll it be tonight, Mia?” he murmurs. “Felicity doesn’t like me telling you about the Arrow days. Says you’re gonna get ideas. I’ll tell you when you’re older though, I promise.” 

“Mama?” Mia asks. She tips forward, flinging both her little hands out against his chest to support herself. “Mama!” 

“Yeah, your mama, baby. The most beautiful, remarkable woman I’ve ever known.” Oliver smiles as an idea takes hold in his head. 

“Hey, you wanna hear about the many ways your mother and I found each other, Mia? Cause in every universe, and in every dimension I’ve been to, we always do. Like we’re _magic.”_

Mia blows a raspberry in response, then chuckles at herself before tilting her head in a way that reminds Oliver so much of Felicity. A surge of overwhelming fondness crashes into him. He tightens his hold on his daughter, then lets out a long, unsteady, breath, because a part of him will always, always find it hard to believe that this wonderful baby girl is his. His and Felicity’s. A product of their love. 

Fuck. He’s such a goner.

“Once upon a time, your mother made a promise to me,” he begins, dropping his voice into a whispery rumble. Mia bursts into a fit of giggles at his dramatics, but otherwise pays rapt attention to him. 

“She said to me, on one of the worst nights of my life, that ‘wherever you go, whatever happens to you, you will never leave me.’” 

The faded memories of that fateful night still haunt him sometimes, even though he knows how it all turns out, and they’re nothing but that - mere memories. The months he was forced apart from his family were so painful he knows they’ll leave everlasting scars on him, like bruises on his soul, hurting when he touches them. 

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts before continuing. “When you’re a God-like, all-knowing, immortal being, promises like _that_ mean... well. They mean _a lot.”_

“Lot!” Mia mutters seriously, as if she understands what he’s saying. She shouldn't, but then again, she is Felicity's daughter so it’s possible she does. Mia’s still so tiny, but she already has such a big personality, one that is so reminiscent of his wife’s - especially when she’s doing what she’s doing now. 

She squints, cheeks puffing up as her little lips morph into a scowl. She flings an arm out before demanding again, “Story, dada.”

How is he supposed to deny such a cute, chubby, little face?

He gives her a little context, waxing poetic about Felicity because... well, why not? She fought with him in her own way through that awful Crisis and did something no other human could have achieved. Their daughter deserves to know how amazing her mother is. 

And then he begins. He starts by telling her about the version of himself that meets Felicity while they’re both ARGUS agents. It’s one of his favourites. _That_ Oliver had fought so hard against years of training and indoctrination because he couldn’t bear the thought of forgetting Agent Smoak. It’s one of the more painful ones, in a Shakespearan tragedy kind of way. It reminds him of his own history with Felicity; entwined in a web of lies, longing and self-punishment but eventually, the two broken, slightly damaged, ex-ARGUS spies make their way back to each other. 

The memory of _that_ life isn’t quite his but at the same time, also is. Being the Spectre allows him to live through, _and remember,_ different versions of the universe, thus, different versions of himself. It was overwhelming at first, to have the memories of an infinite amount of existences swirling about in his head, but he learned to compartmentalise them, shelving these memories of alternate lives until he needs them - and it’s this ability that he calls on tonight to entertain Mia. 

The next story he tells Mia is a lighter one; he tells Mia about Earth-29 where a young Oliver Queen accidentally runs into Felicity on her first day at MIT. From that very second, he’d been enamoured by the blonde and as Oliver rumbles on about study dates and movie marathons to his baby girl, a part of him gets lost in that reality. 

It’s an unblemished life, untouched by the horrors of loss and betrayal. Earth-29 Oliver grows up with Felicity, falling more and more in love with her with each passing day. They go through the trials and tribulations of young love as well as any adult can, and live a long and happy life together. It’s a lovely memory, if a little out of place, because _this_ Oliver has never really known love as innocent and pure as theirs. 

“Bit too idealistic, don’t you think, Mia?” he murmurs as he decides to change tracks. “Good for Earth-29, but your mother and I thrive on a bit more conflict, I think. For example, an internet meet-cute over arguments in the comment section of a blog.”

This one is Felicity’s favourite alternate universe meet-cute, where Earth-7’s Oliver Queen makes good use of his skills in the kitchen and decides to share his talent with the entire world via a cooking blog. Felicity, who they’ve learned is hopeless in the kitchen in every known universe, fails to follow even the simplest recipes and it triggers a back and forth that never fails to bring a smile to his face when he relives that particular memory.

“I asked your mom’s work friend to set up an in-person cooking class at Queen Consolidated just to meet her,” Oliver tells Mia fondly. “Mainly to see if she’s really that bad, or if she’s just - what does your mother call it - _trolling_ me. She wasn’t though, and wow, let me tell you, that’s why I will forever be in charge of all your meal times. In _every_ universe.”

Mia babbles and coos to herself nonsensically, her focus no longer on her father. Her head lolls back as she peers up at him. Her eyelids are drooping, the excitement of being outdoors quickly being replaced by exhaustion. 

“Time for bed, little one?” he asks, poking her gently. 

And, in an exact carbon copy response her mother would make, Mia frowns and sets her lips stubbornly. Her legs stretch out to knead him in his stomach. “No, dada!” 

Oliver chuckles under his breath. “One more?” 

“One more what?” A voice calls out from behind him. It’s faint, but it brings a smile to his face nonetheless. 

The baby in his arms, who, prior to this had been blinking sleepily at him, perks up at the noise and gurgles in delight at the sudden interruption. Her belly bounces adorably as a full-bodied laugh bubbles through her, rocking her entire little frame. She twists, squirms, and then her entire body lists to the side, seeking the source of the new voice - her mother - and Oliver huffs good naturedly. 

“Mamamamamama!” she squeals when she spots her mother walking up to them, boots crunching the dried leaves and twigs on the ground. Mia’s little fists nearly take out Oliver’s eyes as she reaches out for Felicity, and Oliver knows he’s lost the battle. 

He takes the opportunity to kiss his wife while she bends down to lift the baby from his arms, humming with pleasure as he does so.

“She was almost asleep,” Oliver says, cocking an eyebrow at his wife. “I promise.”

She flicks his nose before nudging her way into his lap. The old swing is wide enough for the two of them, Oliver made sure of it when he built it. It had become their favourite outdoor furniture when they realised the back-and-forth motion lulled Mia to sleep far quicker than any lullaby can.

“Are you telling her horror stories, Oliver?” Felicity whispers, snuggling into his side. 

Oliver drapes his arm around her shoulders, murmuring a quiet _no_ , then places a smacking kiss against her cheek as an apology. She narrows her eyes at him, not having a bar of his shenanigans. 

“I told you I wanted to wait to tell her about all of the Hood-Arrow-Green Arrow stuff.” 

Mia cackles, like she’s enjoying hearing her father be admonished, and it’s a sound so musical to his ears that Oliver doesn’t care that Felicity’s glaring at him.

“I was actually telling her stories about all the times we found each other. In all the parallel dimensions in all the universes, on every Earth. _Not_ the Arrow stuff.” he argues. He nudges her with an elbow, careful not to dislodge Mia as he does so. “And even if I wasn’t, the Hood-Arrow-Green Arrow stuff isn’t a _horror story,_ Felicity.” 

“Yes, it is a horror story because you _die,_ Oliver,” Felicity deadpans. She drags a finger along the side of his face before leaning forward and kissing a spot on his jaw. “We held a funeral for you and everything.” 

“But I’m _not_ dead,” Oliver grins. “Technically.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose, and Oliver knows it’s because this whole ‘technically not being dead’ thing is one of the things she doesn’t understand, and there’s nothing Felicity hates more than not understanding something.

“Yeah, _technically,”_ she grouses. “We’re just immortal beings who could have stayed in our own pocket universe and live forever, except we decided to come back in time, to this new, merged reality on Earth Prime and live like normal people, but in secret, and with the knowledge and awareness of everything else that’s going on and _will_ go on in the future.” 

“Yup. Uh-huh. That.” 

He’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore because he’s just - _captivated_ \- by her. She’s glowing under the pale moonlight, her blonde hair cascading down her back, as long as when they first met on Earth-1. She’s gorgeous, a little pink in the cheeks from the cool breeze. Mia’s nestled in her arms, comfortable and snug and Oliver can’t help but love them both so, so, _so_ much. 

“I love you,” he sighs. “Forever.” 

“You’re such a sap, you know?” Felicity snorts, though her eyes twinkle with soft appreciation. She can’t really move her arms, cradling Mia the way she is, but she does snuggle up against Oliver, scooting in just a little closer. It allows Oliver to place a palm over Mia’s belly, warming her up, and the baby croons happily at having both her parents doting on her like this. 

Felicity sighs, her eyes fluttering shut as she tips her head backwards into the crook of his shoulder. “I love you so much.”

“And,” she continues after a beat. Her voice is strong amongst the quiet rustling of the forest around them, rippling outwards with steely determination. “Even if you weren’t some strange immortal god-person, I wouldn’t have let you stay dead anyway.” 

“Dead dead dadada!” Mia echoes sagely. The baby unfurls her fist, then curls her tiny fingers around Oliver’s thumb before sticking it in her mouth. Her drool coats the digit and she frowns before pulling it out. “No dead dada!”

“Yeah, that’s right, Mia. No more dying for dada,” Felicity hums, tickling her. 

Felicity lifts her gaze from her baby to stare at him, meaning every word she’s just uttered. She exhales slowly then leans forward for a kiss. Their lips meet sweetly, in a well-practised motion that never fails to make him feel warm and tingly all over. Alive. 

“You’ll never leave me,” Felicity mumbles against his lips, barely audible. “I’d come find you -” 

These are the words he’ll remember forever. Oliver smiles into the kiss. “- wherever I am, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't too strange and weird for you, my lovely readers. It was a blast to write, that's for sure. Comments and kudos are much appreciated, I love you all.
> 
> Arrest the motherfkers who killed Breonna Taylor. 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


End file.
